


When the Day Met the Night

by Cappy_Crash



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cappy_Crash/pseuds/Cappy_Crash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is a ghost writer,contracted by Sherlock. It was fate that they met; but Moriarty doesn't see it that way. After all, he's the only one allowed to change the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Following the POV of the character you meet in the opening chapter and, occasionally, Sherlock's you will see how their relationship progresses from professional to personal. Can she get out of her routine and solitude to let Sherlock in? Can she teach him about empathy and compassion before he pushes her away? Can they both navigate the bumps in the road to reach a happy ending?
> 
> The tea shop I reference in this chapter is not actually a sit-down-and-drink-tea but a buy-the-leaves-and-brew-yourself kind of shop. In was an error on my part, but it feels a little Harry Potter/ 9 ¾ so I’m leaving it in. How did I find out? I went to the shop for a cuppa… and came out with about 30 cups worth of leaves.

_ Chapter One: Do You Know What I'm Seeing? _

* * *

_There’s a reason I said I’d be happy alone. It wasn’t ’cause I thought I’d be happy alone. It was because I thought if I loved someone and then it fell apart, I might not make it. It’s easier to be alone, because what if you learn that you need love and you don’t have it? What if you like it and lean on it? What if you shape your life around it and then it falls apart? Can you even survive that kind of pain? Losing love is like organ damage. It’s like dying. The only difference is death ends. This? It could go on forever._

_Meredith Grey, Grey’s Anatomy._

* * *

I was happy in my own world! Until him! He threw me off my guard and sent my idea of life into a spin. For someone who was so straight laced, he disregarded everyone else's comfort zones with reckless precision. I didn't know when I first met him that I'd fall in love with him- this is not one of those stories. In fact my first encounter with him left me wanting to get out of his company as fast as possible and never lay my eyes upon his sculpted face again. Of course he had other plans, he always did. He also made me a proposition I couldn't refuse.

I was sat in my favourite tea shop on Neal Street, writing about nothing in particular. I’d just finished writing a biography for an Essex socialite and awaiting the cheque for a timely completion. I’d been given an advance for another, but the publishing house had yet to arrange a meeting, so I had time to myself. This way of living had become a routine: wake up at 6am with a headache that only a caffeine fix could cure. Trying to ignore the throbbing of my head, I'd shuffle into the bathroom and take a quick shower. As soon as I physically could, I'd get out of my cramped, lifeless and uninspiring flat with my bag clutched to my shoulder. I'd move quickly down the staircases. I often contemplated moving; I had the money to, but I didn’t see the point when I only spent my sleeping hours there. Looking back, I guess I was scared that if I had a more comfortable place to live, I’d never actually leave.

The smell of the second floor was unavoidable on the journey out of my building. I was certain even those with stronger stomachs than my own would be void of their contents if they were adventurous enough to have breakfast before leaving the confines and entering the urban jungle that was London via the rubbish dump that was the second floor. Of course, it was only a theory as I'd never invited anyone to my accommodation. Never knew someone well enough for them to be understanding; after all I hated living there. I'd not been able to call anywhere home in many years. Little did I know that within the year I would indeed have a place, and a person, to call home.

Once outside the seven floored flat, armed with all the things I'd need to keep me entertained for the day, I'd take a lung full of morning air and make my way to the tea shop using the most direct route that I know of. I was never in a rush. While the shop would be busy when I arrived, it would be a mixture line of lawyers, bankers and other office workers stopping for their morning fix of caffeine. They'd leave with their drug in a large cup and the shop would remain empty until at least 10am when the new mothers would begin their day with a morning tea. I'd wait in line, immersed in my own world; encased in a blast of music that prevented people from speaking to me. It was easier that way. I’d remove my headphone for enough time to order my first and only cup of coffee of the day. It's always highly unnecessary, the girls behind the counter know my order, but it's only polite. I always take my usual seat in the far corner of the shop, stuff my headphones back into my ears and begin my scribbling, or typing; whatever the mood, or current job, called for.

I had a routine. I'd stay there all day, sipping on tea. I'd see other customers get drinks for free if they stayed more than an hour. Never me, the most I was given was a rolling tab that I was to pay at the end of the day so that I didn't have to leave my seat except to nip to the toilet. It was the way I liked it though. Things were never for free. Everything had a price. Just like my routine had a social price. I sometimes felt I lacked company, friendship and companionship. But, at least this way, I knew where I stood and no one could hurt me by taking it away from me.

Nothing changed, ever.

That was, until he sat down in the vacant seat across the coffee table from me. Everything changed from that moment on. If he asks, I'll deny it.

'Excuse me?' I yanked out my headphones a little harder than I meant to and glared at the man who had yet to remove his thick coat or scarf, despite it being rather warm inside the shop. I was hoping to convey anger; however, whatever expression hung on my face amused him no end. I cursed my facial muscles for being so inept at channelling anger. 'I could be waiting for someone.' I argued. I didn't want to lie and tell him that I was waiting for someone, mainly because I couldn't lie, partly because I had the feeling that this stranger could see right through any invention. 'The polite thing would be –'

'- to ask if the seat was free, I agree. But, how do you suppose I enquire about the ownership of this chair with your music so loud?' He pressed his lips into a line that became something I later identified as his signature quirky smile. He drew his mug up to his lips but paused before he took a sip. 'Besides, it's quite clear you are not waiting for anyone.' I knew it was a loaded statement engineered to draw me into a conversation. I had a choice to make; I could ask him how he knew I wasn't waiting for anyone or I could be rude, throw him an attempted dirty look and go back to my ramblings. Ah hell, this was going to make my blood boil and my head ache. While I was contemplating my choices, he'd begun drinking from his mug, oblivious to the inner monologue that was tearing my head apart.

'How-' I began to ask. I noticed his Adam's apple vibrate as he suppressed what I could only perceive as a laugh. It was exactly what he wanted. He'd wanted me to ask. For some reason he wanted to engage me in conversation. He sighed, stretched and then relaxed into his seat. Ok, so he wants to talk at me.

'You're faced away from the door and you're not sat rigidly like many people who are awaiting company, always on edge because they don't want to miss their companion. You have three cups on the table, all yours from the smear of gloss on the lip of the cup.' I couldn't help but chew on my bottom lip at this observation. 'Incidentally from the random pattern your gloss has left, you could train yourself to be ambidextrous. The waitress likes to give you space, hence the build-up of cups.' He observed her further. 'In fact, you're sat in such a way that means you can't see a single person who enters the place which, from an anthropological view point, is rather anti-social.' He drank deeply from his mug and placed it down on the table. I could smell peppermint and it reminded me that I was thirsty. I drank from my own cup, trying not to wince as the stone cold tea trickled down my throat. 'The items you have with you aren't props either; unlike the woman behind you who has failed to turn the page of her book since she arrived. She also has a mobile phone, which will soon lose power because she keeps checking it for a message from her companion, who is-' He looked to his vintage watch. '-about 30 minutes late.'

I felt my brow tighten. I was confused; what did the woman's phone have to do with me?

'You have your phone in your bag and on silent. You are not expecting any calls.' He explained as if he was simply telling the time. It unnerved me.

'Ok, but just because I'm not expecting anyone doesn't mean someone I know won't arrive-' was that pity I saw flash across his blue eyes just before he cut me off?

'How would someone recognise you from the back of your head? It's a rather bland, undefined head. No... You know very few people in London. You originally came out to work in tea shops to try and meet new people, but your failed attempts at humour with the staff here has drained you of your confidence, so you now convince yourself that merely being around people while you have no work is enough to stop you feeling alone.' There! That right there was faux pity. This pompous man was either patronising me or he genuinely didn't know how to express empathy. Either way, I was angry. He was sitting there, plucking me from my happy isolated, ignorant existence and then making it out that it wasn't good enough. It wasn't, I wasn’t happy. It wasn’t good enough and I knew that, but who was he to point it out?

'I'm working right now, actually.' I declared, a little too prickly for my liking; I didn't want this stranger to think he'd gotten to me. Which, of course he had. It was going to be a three scoop evening at home. Nearly a whole tub of ice cream would be rammed into those three scoops. Good thing too, because the freezer didn't really work, so the ice cream only ever lasted a week before growing those unflattering crystals. Eating a family portion of ice cream was something I would punish myself for by going for a run at nine that evening instead of watching the film that I'd planned all week to watch when I'd seen it advertised; totally predictable.

'You're writing by hand,' He insisted. 'If it was paid work you were doing you'd be working on a laptop; it's less personal and not your preference; however, it is efficient. Your phone is on silent because you are working on your own novel, a fiction piece. You want a day to yourself, to write down your own ideas before your talents get used on some random celebrity's biography.'

''Well as you said, I have a day to myself and I'm choosing to spend it alone. So, if you don't mind; I'm going to get back to my work.' I stuffed the headphones back into my ears until I was sure the only way of getting them out would be through a pair of tweezers, I bent my head over the desk to stare at my half-filled page, hoping I was obscuring the ramblings from the observant man. I was trying to ignore the man who was currently scrolling through his phone while sipping on his tea. The man who made me feel so naked and vulnerable that I wanted to cry. Something didn't sit right with me; he'd passed me another loaded statement that I just couldn't get away from. I had a question and from the smile creeping onto his face, he was counting down to the removal of my head phones. I yanked them out with a sharp tug, but he spoke before I had chance to open my mouth:

'I know that your phone is on silent because, Miss Doyle, I've been trying to contact you. I'm Sherlock Holmes and I'm in need of your assistance.’


	2. Nine in the Afternoon

'Hello Sherlock.' I welcomed him cheerfully a month after our first meeting. I never knew when to expect him yet I was never surprised. I knew there'd be a pattern to him, but I was in no rush to discover it. I pulled my headphones out, turned the music off and placed it on the table between us. I took the offered cup of tea and clutched it with both hands.

Today I managed to say hello without looking up from my work. I was quite proud that I'd acknowledged his presence in a calm, blasé way. Then I remembered he was the only person who ventured into my territory.

A month ago he'd asked me to ghost write a novel for him. He'd argued that a person who could write in such an adaptable style that only he himself knew the books were written by a ghost was the one he wanted to work with. He correctly named the five pieces of work that I had written which didn't have my name on the cover.

He claimed that he didn't have the time to write them down in any other way than he had on his website and that he disapproved of his companion's interpretation in his blog; John Watson, I'd heard of him. I personally felt that Sherlock was too involved and lacked the creativity to engage an audience. He was too clinical with his writing. However, part of me thought he had an ulterior motive with this book. Perhaps it wasn't targeted for civilian eyes.

Each week, always on a different day, he'd appear with a drink for each of us. He'd sit with me for at least an hour, recounting one case at a time. It always seemed rehearsed and painstakingly planned. It was as if he was missing something out, a part of him. He was deliberately dropping a stitch and it frustrated me. Everything he recounted could be discovered from his website. I wanted him to show pride and passion in what he had done; I had a feeling he did, so why wasn't he showing that side of himself to me?

'Why don't you ever write anything down?' He asked me once he recollected a case from three years ago with intricate, bone dry, detail. 'You don't even record it.' His voice came across short and sharp; clipped. Was he annoyed? Even though, to a reader's ear it would be dry, rigid and the complete opposite of engaging I was hanging onto every one of those carefully constructed words. I was captivated, I was enthralled. I was also completely stuck as to how I was going to make the reader feel the same.

'I like to concentrate on what you have to say Sherlock.' I told him, trying to keep my voice firm. 'If I write while you're talking, I'll miss something. If I record you I won't write fluently. It'll be yours words, not my echo. You know that you have a way with words that could get your work placed in a reading list for a criminology degree without my help.' I took a gulp of my tea. 'If you're not happy with my methods-'

'I'm just curious.' He interrupted me before I could finish my empty threat. Truth was I needed the money, so if he told me to jump; I would ask how high. I was bluffing in the hope that I'd get my own way. 'I thought you couldn't surprise me is all.' Was that an insult or a compliment? I was going to take it as a compliment whether he liked it or not.

'Sorry to disappoint.' I hid my victorious smile behind my mug of tea. There was a moment of comfortable silence that I enjoyed. There was something homely about knowing someone long enough to allow a moment or two go by without any one saying a word.

'Do you have any more jobs lined up?' He asked draining his mug. Time was almost up and I could feel him retreating as he spoke, the homely feeling leaving with him.

'Not a peep. It's hard to get a good name for yourself when your job is to be unknown and you're damn good at it.' I sighed. The money was good, but it was inconsistent. I had money in an account, more than enough to move out of my accommodation but when I didn't know where the next pay was coming from, I felt it was irresponsible to spend my savings. London was expensive and I hardly had people knocking down my door. In fact, until Sherlock, I'd never had a person seek me out before.

'Is that why you're not sleeping?' He paused to see the way my face fell as I processed this information. Did he think I was stressed? I was unhappy, unchallenged but I wasn't stressed; it was the beauty and benefit of a simple life. 'You had a second cup of coffee this morning; both with addition shots of espresso. I paid your tab.' He explained, I hope he hadn't noticed the flush that had heated my face out of embarrassment. I liked paying my own way. 'You also look extremely tired.'

'Thanks!' I chuckled sarcastically.  _So you're telling me I look like crap?_  I mentally asked him. I didn't know him well enough to say it out loud. 'But no, I'm not stressed. I was woken up in the early hours again; my neighbours where having yet another domestic.' I tried to smile. It was awful; the screaming went on for almost an hour. Back and forth between a man and woman; words came out loud and slurred. They were both drunk. 'It'll calm down, I'm sure.'

'When you live about a drug dealer, I doubt it-'

'How do you know that? I don't even know who lives in the same building as me. I've never spoken to any of them.' I cut him off, genuinely in awe of him.

'You're clothes smell of the drug and whatever chemical they use to cut it.' As he spoke I blushed so red I knew he wouldn't have missed it. I could feel the heat travel across my face so fast it stung my eyes. 'Don't worry, it is feint. No one but me would notice.' His words were a small comfort to me.

'Could be worse I guess. I could live directly above the second floor and smell of rotten food and unclean bodies.' I insisted looking on the bright side.

'Squatters no doubt.' He insisted. 'Explains why you're never at home, or invite people over.' He stood and pulled on his coat.

'You hinting for an invite there Holmes?' I smiled playfully picking up my pen and IPod, ready to write once he'd left.

'Of course not.' He replied flatly, misunderstanding my rhetorical question. 'See you next week Sam.' He vacated the space before me and left me feeling more alone than I'd ever felt.

I didn't write again that day, I moved to the couch by the window, curled my legs under myself and clutched my tea in both hands. I watched the world go by until the sun went down and I was informed that the shop was closing.


	3. New Perspective

She hadn't noticed and I wasn't about to point it out, but there had been small changes in her behaviour and routines in the time that I'd known her. By my third visit her phone was on the table despite the fact that I'd neither text or phoned since that first day. She never paid any attention to it and I've not seen her get a single correspondence on the device. It was there none the less, her attempt to appear 'normal' to me. Normal was boring, why didn't she understand that?

By the fifth week she'd moved to the opposite seat that I would usually occupy. She'd face the door, but never look at it. She'd never observed any of the people that arrived, and therefore didn't notice me there at the counter three times that week when I'd called in to get a coffee before meeting with Lastrade. Each time she was sat, deep in concentration, her brown hair tied up on top of her head. She didn't care for her long hair, but didn't seem to have the inclination to get it cut either.

When I did sit down to speak to her, she would always ring out a bright 'Hello Sherlock' before looking up, pleased to see me. By my tenth encounter, things had changed significantly.

'You're not listening to your music!' I observed as I sat down. She'd also rearranged the furniture; my seat was now the same side as her own, place at an angle so that I could see her while looking out into the shop at the same time. Had she been acutely aware that having my back to a busy room irritated me? Or was she uncomfortable with my focus being solely on her?

'I forgot it.' She answered, her voice was uncomfortably strained. It angered her that she'd forgotten it. I glanced at her paper that she thought was concealed on her lap; clearly the lack of music increased her level of writing. There on top was a full page of neat, curled writing. It was my work she was working on, that would be saved on the laptop which was in her bag that was neatly stowed away under her chair. She'd picked up on the routine of my visits and that was why she'd forgotten her Ipod; she was rushing this morning. I wasn't going to tell her that. She always became irritated when I pointed out her habits and then she'd try to change them in time for the next meeting. She wasn't the only one.

Usually by now she would have taken a sip of her tea I'd brought over for her, but it still remained untouched on the table. Today she seemed distant I'd broken her escapist thoughts and something that had been bothering her had crept back to distract her.

I tentatively placed my hand onto the wrist of her right arm which was resting on the table. I hoped this would be of comfort to her and that I could let go soon. I felt her flinch slightly at my touch but locked her eyes with mine. They had pooled tears at the bottom of the lids; surely my company wasn't that offensive? I used my eyes to question her behaviour;  _are you alright? What is wrong?_  They were dull, pointless questions that would insult both my own and her intelligence.

'There was a fire in my flat last night.'

'No there wasn't!' I interrupted. I know people hate that, but I was only stating the obvious. I removed my hand from hers as I felt her tense from my interjection. 'You're here for a start; no one who had been through such a traumatic event would be sitting here as calmly as you.' I paused as she scoffed, catching a tear falling from her face and presenting it to be as a person would raise a glass in a toast. Point taken, I thought before continuing. 'Your possessions are fine and your clothes do not smell of smoke... In fact they smell of...' I paused; she only smelt of her perfume. It was old; almost two, no three, years old. Well and truly past its date for wearing but it was too expensive for her to replace. It had been a gift from someone special; she was not the kind of person who would buy perfume for herself. Sam had not noticed the change in the smell because she was so used to wearing it. Not all the time, but on special occasions. It all fitted into place. 'You bought the clothes today,' I added. 'The fire was not your flat but the one bellow. Your clothes at home all smell of smoke, even to your nose, so you went out and bought news ones for today on your way here.' I paused to take in her frailty. 'You only did that and came here because you knew I'd be here.'

I'd feel guilt if I believed that I was directly responsible for her choice of actions and if the emotion wasn't such a complete and utter waste of time.

'Don't be so egotistical,' she smiled despite her tears. She took great pride in the times when she got to correct my insights. I didn't mind because I liked to see her smile. 'While I was aware that you'd be here today, I never want to be in that flat on a normal day, let alone after the night I've had. I've even bought a ticket to see a play tonight.'

She'd bought a day ticket, fraction of the price for unpredictable seat. She didn't mind, it was her validation for going alone.

'Sherlock, they had a child. I'd seen her playing outside the building when I'd be going back of an evening. She wouldn't be wearing any shoes or socks. She's currently in the hospital's intensive care unit.' Her tears had stopped, her sadness replaced by a stronger emotion. 'I didn't do anything!'

'Did you even know she lived there?'' I asked, knowing the answer. Sam just someone to agree with her and tell her that it wasn't her fault that the child was injured.

'No, I never heard a peep from her and I only ever saw her outside. I don't think her parent's paid her enough attention because the few times I did try and speak to her it was clear her speech hadn't been developed properly. She couldn't even tell me her name, and I would say she was at least four years old.' She mused in silence moment before realising I was still there. 'I'm so sorry; you're paying me to do a job. That was very unprofessional of me.'

'It's ok,' I found myself saying. 'But if anything like this happens again, please ring me.'

'And cancel, yes of course.' She muttered bashfully. No not of course, how can you phone and cancel something that does not exist? She mistook my meaning.

'No, so that you can talk it through with someone right away before it rips your sanity apart.' I corrected her. This concern and offer of a companion to lean on took her by surprise and brought a flush to her cheeks. It frustrated her that she could not control it because soon after she excused herself and visited the bathroom.

I stayed a little longer than usual, to ensure she was completely calm before I left. She invited me to distract her by summing up a selected individual who walked in to purchase a drink. She attempted a few and I noted that she had a keen eye, but unfortunately a tendency to think of zebras before horses; typical novelist.

Her smile was wide, reflecting her inner peace as I gathered my coat to leave. Her smile faulted slightly at this movement. She didn't like the prospect of being left alone. She'd rather have my insufferable, condescending company than be alone. Something to tell John the next time he complained.

'I'd like to walk you home after your play!' I insisted as I pulled on my coat. She shook her head; her pride getting in the way of ensuring she'd get home safely. She refused to tell me what play she was going to see. 'I'll figure it out,' were my parting words. I pretended not to hear her comment, but it brought a smile to my lips. She muttered 'The game is on,' before I'd gotten two tables away.

It was indeed on.


	4. Pas De Cheval

I'd lucked out with my theatre ticket; third row centre. It was the benefit of going solo. By the end of the first act I had forgotten what I was heading home to. That blissful escapism ended the moment the curtain fell for the final time that night amid a thunder of applause and a futile roar for an encore performance by the besotted fans of the lead actor.

I waited in my seat patiently for the crowds to disperse and filter into the night, all talking animatedly with each other about their favourite bits, before I made my way up the aisle and out of the theatre into the lobby. My heart was heavy as I was aware the evening was coming to an end.

The day had been so warm that I hadn't thought to bring a coat. Now the cold bit at my bare shoulders. It caused me a little concern as I was still stood at the threshold of the building and I had a forty-minute walk ahead of me. Most people had headed to the main street to hail a taxi so the street was pretty much deserted. I knew it would be safer, and quicker, to take a taxi myself. But what was the rush; I had nothing to get home for except for sleep. I dismissed the idea of getting a pet the second it entered my head.

I briefly allowed my mind to entertain the idea that Sherlock would be waiting to walk me home. I would not be disappointed if he didn't show. At least that's what I would tell him on Tuesday when I'd see him next. Or I'd avoid the mention of his offer completely if I could. I didn't want the man I considered wholly independent thinking I was beginning to depend upon his company.

'Miss Doyle?' A voice questioned from behind me and made me jump. 'I'm sorry; I didn't mean to startle you. Sherlock sent me.' He explained sheepishly as I turned to the voice. There was about six feet between us. He had his weight resting upon a cane that was clutched in his right hand and a coat wrapped over his left. The coat wasn't for him as he was wearing his own grey button-up. It clashed with his other attire. It must have been a gift; a girlfriend who didn't see eye to eye with his fashion sense.  _Damn you Sherlock; I'm doing it now!_

'You're Dr John Watson.' I let the breath I'd been holding since he first spoke escape my lips. I took the steps needed to close the gap between us and extended my first hand for him to shake. I watched as he passed the cane smoothly from his right to left hand and took my hand. His grip was firm and confident. I instantly trusted this man with my life.

'This is for you.' He passed me the full length coat. As soon as I pulled the long, heavy coat onto my frame images of Sherlock flooded through my mind. It smelt of him and pleasantly abused my senses; a tangle of seasons and other things so mingled and connected that I couldn't deconstruct it to identify them all.

'Where is he?' I asked hoping he'd not noticed me pull the coat a little closer with one hand and reposition the collar with my other. I felt so self conscious, more so than usual.

'He got a call from Lestrade. He sends his apologies, his coat and his resident, and exceptionally loyal, lap dog to escort you home.' He stretched out his hands to indicate that he was the lap dog. I was mortified; this man had implied it with such a bittersweet tone that I wondered if it were a genuine friendship or someone Sherlock could become bored of if John outgrew his usefulness. At least I knew that was the case with me; I had entered a contract that had an expiration date. Dear John, wonderful John had not. Why had Sherlock put his two puppets into this awkward position? I had a fleeting thought that he was observing in a secluded spot; me and John playing in his anthropological project.

'You really don't have to John. I-' I couldn't look the army doctor in the eyes; Concentrating instead on my feet that were shuffling back and forth uncomfortably; a response to me fighting off the desire to run.

'Believe me Miss Doyle, you are one of the most pleasurable tasks I've had to endure at the whim of Sherlock. It would be my pleasure to walk you home.' He responded in a tone that was anything but rude. Yet it left me with no room to argue.

'So long as you call me Sam.' I compromised. He nodded and offered his now free left arm. How strange, no man had ever offered his arm to me. How did this polar opposite know Sherlock well enough to meet a total stranger at eleven in the evening when he had a girlfriend to be at home with? We headed north from Sloan Square until we got to the road I usually took home.

'How was the play?' John asked as he took his asymmetrical steps. I enjoyed the rhythm his walk gave us. It was different and strangely comforting. Why did everything in life have to be so uniform? I explained that I had enjoyed it and as the conversation progressed it turned out that John had taken his girlfriend at the weekend. It made a nice change to compare opinions with someone.

It was only when we got to the bottom of my road that our conversation ventured towards Sherlock. I felt an unfamiliar stirring in the pit of my stomach at his name. I didn't like it. He was paying me to do a job and I was getting distracted by school-girl flights of fancy.

'You'll get used to him.' John continued. I didn't want to get used to him, as soon as I did I'd be dependant and before I'd know it he'd be gone, onto his next compulsive obsession. 'He was quite concerned about you today, which is a remarkable feat. He usually has the emotional range of a roasted walnut. Now this is not a question you would never hear from out Mr Holmes as he does not understand social and emotional etiquette, but are you ok?'

'I'm...' I faltered as John's warm and inviting eyes bore into my soul. 'I'll be ok. I let my imagination run away with me sometimes. I expect to be able to smell her burnt flesh. They stopped the fire quickly.' I rationalised, more for my own piece of mind than John's. 'It was contained to their flat and mine only smells of the smoke. It'll go in a few days.' I contemplated what I was going to say next. It was something that I would never usually voice. 'The damage in their flat will be superficial. The only thing that was truly damaged was irreplaceable. Yet those parents won't realise that.' I sighed deeply. 'At least I'm tired enough to sleep. Then tomorrow-'

'You'll be back in your cafe?' John questioned; his limp predominantly worse than when we'd started out. I released his arm in the hope that it would elevate some of the pain he was undoubtedly feeling.

'Yes, I suppose I will.' I smiled; Sherlock had spoken to this man about me. My heart fluttered annoyingly as if I'd had ten espressos and placed myself on a rollercoaster with a 5.5 g force. That thought pulled out a long buried memory. Yet another lonely experience; my uncle had taken me to a theme park one summer. He had not been able to go on the rides with me so I'd queued alone for hours while he parked up on a bench. It was in the paper; man dies of heart attack at local theme park. He'd not even gone on a single ride, not even the sky ride to take us from one part of the park to another. He'd died before I'd gotten to him and I was taken home by the police.

'I'm working on my own novel at the moment. I don't think it will be any good though. How can I convey something I've not experienced? I'm not an extravert or adventurous in the slightest.' I felt like I was stating the obvious.

'Life is sometimes over rated, adventures even more so.' John soothed. I felt that he wanted to tell me more but decided to leave it there for the day.

'This is me!' We found ourselves at the gate to my building. 'I'd invite you in-' I began apologetically.

'Don't worry about it.' He flattened his hair against the wind that had just arrived for the night. 'It was lovely to meet you Sam and I'm sure I'll see you again soon.'

'Good night John.' I retreated into my prison, climbing the stairs in sets of two. I held my breath until I reached the landing of the third floor and I spared a thought for the young girl as I passed the fifth floor.

Only once I'd closed my door with a snap did I realise I was still wearing Sherlock's coat. I peered out of my window to see if John was still there but he'd vanished without a trace. I poured myself a glass of water and went to find comfort in my bedroom. I contemplated going to Sherlock's home to return his coat but I didn't have any idea where he lived.

Placing the glass upon the bedside table I delved into my bag to retrieve my phone; it had died at some point during the day. While it was gaining enough power to start up I ventured into the bathroom to brush my teeth. My eyes were beginning to fight consciousness as I took in the peace and quiet; perhaps I should have taken advantage of the fact that the residents of the flat below were currently keeping vigil at the girl's bedside. I reprimanded myself for such a negative thought as I turned off the bathroom light and climbed into bed, fully clothed.

As I leaned over to turn off the bedroom light I noticed the screen of my phone flash. I'd received a text once the phone had powered up:

**You can return the coat when we next meet, SH.**

I checked the time stamp of the text. There was no way John could have possibly gotten back to him in that time for him to discover I still had his coat. I placed the phone back on the bedside and drew my legs up to my chest,

I did not remove his coat from my frame that night. I did not care if he predicted this would happen or that he'd deduce what I'd done upon the items return to its owner. Tonight I didn't care; I didn't want to feel alone. I wanted to feel homely. His scent that was interwoven into his coat was undeniably homely to me.


	5. Nails for Breakfast, Tacks for Snacks

I studied his face as he continued to read the current version of the transcript. It was fixed on the transcript and unreadable; it made me more than a little nervous. He'd been there for almost two hours already and his face had not changes; mask-like and fixed in a mood of concentration.

Me, after two hours in his company, I was fidgeting. I was embarrassed to admit that I had spent the last two hours fighting my urge not to stare. How often would I have him there that long so that I could take in all of his beauty; his pale lips that were almost indistinguishable from his alabaster skin? And there I go, distracted by the one part of him I shouldn't.

It's not like I didn't try and distract myself. I'd gone to the counter when it had the longest queue to order us drinks while he read. Despite the line, it took no time at all and before I knew it I was back at the table. Realising he was not going to finish any time soon I pulled out the novel I was reading and digested five rather long chapters before he was close to finishing. I eventually closed my book mid-chapter as I noticed he was on the last few pages. I knew I'd not normally do that, the point of chapters is to allow a reader a natural breaking point. However I knew I'd been distracted and that I'd have to re-read them once I gotten back to the flat.

'What do  _you_  think?' Sherlock questioned me when he'd placed the transcript on the table. I couldn't tell from the tone of his voice if he was disappointed or not. The truth was I still didn't like it. It was as if I'd written it with an all important vowel missing. It wasn't him and it certainly wasn't me. I told him so and I watched his face break into a smile. 'It's incredibly well written.' He insisted. 'And you'll get there. You just have to stop forcing it. There's no rush.'

I allowed a moment to pass in silence.

'I was wondering-'

'Famous last words.' He teased leaning back into the chair, his now cold tea in his hand.

'Could I shadow you? On a case, any case... It doesn't have to be dangerous.' I sucked in a breath and prepared to argue my case. His expression was still unreadable but I was expecting his response. 'I have an idea you see. I think you're different when you're involved, when you're using that high functioning mind of yours to its fullest capacity.' I saw him swell with pride at this. 'I'm sure, certain, that you're different to the man before me recollecting his feats of genius.' I was hoping that I had flattered him enough.

'No' He answered flatly and my heart plummeted, this novel was going to be discount bin material at this rate. 'Not until you've gotten rid of your cold.' He explained with a little more warmth. 'I'm never in one place for long, even someone at full strength would be exhausted.'

'But, Sherlock; I've not got a cold! You may be good, but you surely can't predict that your next case and me falling ill will coincide!' I insisted.

'I have a case! I'm meeting John at home in an hour when he finishes work. However, Sam, your eyes a slightly out of focus, your voice is slightly raspy, you have a headache-'

'From the lack of coffee!' I protested wondering how he knew that my had yet to stop throbbing. I wasn't going to ask.

'You drifted off for twenty seconds when I was reading the manuscript and you were observing me.' He pulled on my arm when I refused to meet his eyes. 'Sam, I will happily show off to you at a later date, but it's November-'

'Because I'd forgotten that since I looked at the paper this morning?'

'Cute.' He threw me his quirky smile, his hand still burning its way through my thin long sleeved top. 'My point is that tonight you should be in bed when your fever hits and not roaming the below-zero streets with me.'

'And your Doctor.' I exploded. 'I couldn't think of a better place to be.' I couldn't believe I was arguing about an illness I didn't have. Sure, my throat felt like I'd swallowed nails for breakfast, but that was nothing. I reasoned that it was hypochondria that I felt worse since Sherlock was talking about having a cold.

'My Doctor will send you right home if you continue.' He finally moved his hand to check his phone. 'I have to go, pieces are moving into place. John's informed me he's found the location of the body.' He jumped up excitedly as if a fire had been placed in his soul; there was a glimpse of the missing piece, leaving me wanting more. He pulled on his coat sharply, smiling broadly to himself. I inwardly giggled. Only Sherlock would look as happy as a six year old on Christmas day at the prospect of a dead body. I found it unnerving that this didn't bother me. He retrieved his scarf from the chair.

'The game is on?' I asked as he continued to vibrate with excited energy, turning what I would make into his catchphrase back on him once again.

'It is indeed Miss Doyle.' He clamped his leather bound hands to either side of my face and abruptly kissed the crown of my head. 'Get home safe, take a taxi. Get into bed and reread those chapters. I will check on you tomorrow; regardless of where you're located!' He spoke softly, his hand still on my face. He nodded a further goodbye before leaving the shop.

My head burned where he'd kissed me. It wasn't romantic or passionate but something more familiar. I'd take what I could get. There was a concern in his voice when he spoke, as if it pained him to leave me there and not see me home. I made my way to the counter after gathering my things. I pulled out my purse in order to pay my tab to once again discover that he'd paid.

I pulled my coat tighter and ventured into the crisp winter evening. I was contemplating where to go for food before heading home when I realised my stomach was in protest. Perhaps Sherlock was right and I was getting sick.

I'd managed to get to the bottom of the road when a black car pulled up and the window lowered with an electric buzz. 'Miss Doyle?' The darkness called. Despite my better judgement, that had loaned Sherlock's voice for the evening, I engaged with the voice by approaching the window and peering inside. 'Would you care for a ride?' The smooth voice offered.

'My mother told me not to accept lifts from strangers.' I teased confidently. I recognised the man instantly. I knew who he was; Sherlock had mentioned him; warned me.

'Come come child, I'm hardly a stranger. My brother will have undoubtedly mentioned me by now!' He eased himself out of the car and ushered me in. I felt like I'd been hypnotised. He barked my address at the driver and we set off.

'How well is the book coming along?' He asked and I mumbled something positive. We let a moment or two pass in an uncomfortable silence. 'This really is a turn up for the books. I spend the majority of his life being his only friend.' I audibly snort at this. That was rude and I'm never rude; I've allowed Sherlock's opinion to colour my own. Mycroftt chooses to ignore it however, 'and here you are, the second in the space of a year; ovaries to boot. I do hope he's not set your heart a flutter? I really would hate for you to break his heart by having yours stopped.'

'Is that a threat?' I enquired boldly.

'Lord no, but you run the risk of being fatally hurt; he's married to his job.' He cleared his statement up for me. I did notice he did take pride in my thought that he was threatening me. 'Loving you will ensure he leads you to your death.'

'Let me stop you there Mycroftt. Let's not fool ourselves into thinking Sherlock is capable of love.' The moment I uttered this new found knowledge, I knew it to be true.

'You're a feisty one.' He smiled; a thought glinted in his eye. 'How loyal are you then; knowing the man can never love you back-'

'I will not even dignify that with a response.' I flared. I was beginning to feel dizzy. 'You are nothing but a bully; and you don't scare me! Also, I very much doubt I am a friend. In a year's time, neither of you will remember my name.'

'For your sake, I hope you're right.' The car pulled up at my building and I got out quickly without thanking him or saying goodbye. The window lowered once again. 'I don't think you value yourself as much as Sherlock does.' He stated to the back of my retreating head. 'Ask him about Moriarty, Miss Doyle.' I turned round at this. 'There's a reason why he's not told you. He, against his better judgement, cares about you and does not want to scare you away.'

'Well I'm sorry to disappoint you but I've never been afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.' I stuffed my frozen hands into my coat pocket. 'I have seen enough death to know not to fear what is on the other side. Good day to you Mr Holmes.'

I walked calmly and boldly into my building, climbing the stairs as I normally would. I only started shaking violently once I was safely inside my flat with the deadbolt firmly closed across the door.

 


End file.
